


The Words Inside My Head

by MissVictoriaRose



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, Thor (Movies)
Genre: Darcy Lewis' backstory, Darcy is the fandom bicycle and I love it, Dom/sub Undertones, Dubious Consent, F/M, SHIP DARCY WITH ALL THE THINGS, There is a plot here, with some cliches
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-15
Updated: 2017-11-22
Packaged: 2018-12-02 09:05:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 12
Words: 14,286
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11506149
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MissVictoriaRose/pseuds/MissVictoriaRose
Summary: Intimacy has never been a word in Darcy Lewis' vocabulary. Sex? Lust? A good time? Sure. But she doesn’t stick around to know anything about 'em. She blames it on her psycho mother, on a father she never met. She blames it on never quite getting over that ‘bad boy’ high school kink.Because if Darcy Lewis knows anything, she knows he isn't just trouble, he's dangerous.And Danger has consequences.





	1. This is Just the Beginning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Darcy knows better, but that doesn’t stop her from throwing back the shot of whiskey he bought her. And the next, and then a third. It doesn’t stop her from following him out of the bar. She doesn’t listen to her common sense telling her to push him away when he bites her bottom lip as he kisses her.

Darcy Lewis knows better.

She absolutely knows better.

Does that stop her from smiling back at the cute guy at the end of the bar? Of course not. That would be ridiculous. In her defense, the black shirt with the sleeves pushed up was offering a very nice view of muscle arm porn, and it was totally working for her. He has the right mix of _trouble and danger_ with his possessive stare and smirk on his lips.

He’s an older man, tanner than her, with a hardened face and scars along his knuckles. He catches her eye, notices her smile, and grabs his drink as he got of his barstool to approach her.

Darcy knows better. She knows that ridged posture, the squared shoulders, and the way his eyes routinely dart to the mirrored backdrop behind the bar—he’s trained. Probably hear with the sketchy government agency that absconded with Jane’s lab equipment earlier today. 

Usually she’d be preaching girl power. She would tell the apparent jackbooted thug to get lost—she never did get her iPod back.

But Jane’s not here, because she’s on an adventure with the blond hunk of tasered roadkill. She left Darcy here, alone. Okay, so maybe she had been with Selvig, but then he left too. Something about not trusting the crazy dude Jane got obsessed with. So, she’s here, at the only bar in a 20 mile radius, left out of the good times adventuring.

“What’s a girl like you, doing in a place like this?” his voice is low, rough—an accent she couldn’t place.

Darcy blatantly looks him up and down, from the light wrinkles around his dark brown eyes, to his black combat boots—“I’m looking for a good time. Buy me a drink?”

Darcy knows better, but that doesn’t stop her from throwing back the shot of whiskey he bought her. And the next, and then a third. It doesn’t stop her from following him out of the bar. She doesn’t listen to her common sense telling her to push him away when he bites her bottom lip as he kisses her.

“Darcy,” she tells him as she climbs into his truck.

His lips curve into a devilish smile.

Darcy knows better, but that doesn’t stop her from throwing open the door to her trailer for him to enter. He leaves a trail of marks and bites down her throat as they leave a trail of thrown clothes on the way.

He pushes her down on to the bed and crawls over her, kissing up her body. She hooks a leg around his waist. He wraps a hand around her throat, whispering words in to her ear that leaves her squirming, panting. She leaves nail marks down his back. 

He sinks in to her, rolling his hips. She bites his neck to muffle a moan. He tugs on her hair, “I want to hear you, little girl.” 

She arches her back. 

“More,” she begs, “Please, please, please.” 

He drags her up on his lap, rocking back on his knees and toes. Eye to eye. He’s thrusting into her, hands on her hips as he’s pulling her down harder. She’s gasping. 

He watches her, glassy eyes and parted red lips. She shudders. Her muscles tremble. He’s unrelenting in his action, in his force. His fingertips burn and bruise on her skin. He drives her to the edge. She’s crying out to a god she doesn’t believe in, moaning, begging.

He’s got a hand between them, rubbing, flicking, pinching. She throws her head back, clawing at his back, digging her nails into his shoulders. 

He goes faster, harder, rougher.

“Another,” he growls.

Darcy shakes her head, bracing her hands on his shoulders, and whimpers, “please.”

He didn’t let her go. He didn’t stop. 

She’s in pain. She’s in pleasure. She’s out of her mind sobbing and withering on him. Her eyes water. Her lungs burn.

Her leg twitches. Her breath catches. Her body jerks.

“There’s my good girl,” his breath hitting the shell of her ear. 

He holds her close, hip flesh against hip, with an arm wrapped around her waist. His other hand is trailing through her tangled hair. 

They’re both breathing loud in the silence of her trailer. 

He leans his forehead against hers. He still watching her. She looks down, at his scruffy beard and sweaty chest. 

She moves to drop her head on his shoulder, still panting. 

He’s silent.

He moves them to lay her down on the bed, removing himself from her to head to her bathroom. 

She spreads out on her bed, limbs lazily limp. Her eyes bounce from the bathroom door, outlined by the light coming behind it, and to the ceiling.

She jumps when he comes back out, propping herself up on her elbows. 

He comes back with a wet towel. 

She shifts to lean on one arm to take it from him with a mumbled, “thanks.”

He grabs her outstretched hand, kissing her wrist, not letting it go, as he reaches between her legs and wipes her clean methodically. He tosses the used towel away.

Then, he crawls in to bed next to her, pulling her closer to him. She lays her head on his chest, eyes wide and movements unsure. 

He runs his hands through her hair in calming strokes. Eventually, she falls asleep to his steady hands and heartbeat.

Darcy knows better, but that doesn’t stop her, the next morning, from lackadaisically patting the empty side of the bed. It doesn’t stop her from scrubbing every inch of her skin in the shower. It doesn’t stop her from staring at her reflection in the mirror. She counts the bruises and the hickeys. 

She never learned his name. 

But she knows the way his strong arms feel wrapped around her. She knows the taste of his lips and his skin. She knows the way he sounds when he’s on the edge of oblivion . 

A thought in the back of her head, a curse, a cancer taking root—wonders if she would ever see him again.

If she should see him again. 

Intimacy has never been a word in her vocabulary. Sex? Lust? A good time? Sure. But she doesn’t stick around to _know_. She blames it on her psycho mother, on a father she never met. She blames it on never quite getting over that ‘bad boy’ high school kink.

Because if Darcy Lewis knows anything, she knows he wasn’t just trouble, he was dangerous.


	2. Going Home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The whole situation wraps up with Thor, an actual God, playing the world’s greatest Whack’a’mole with the giant alien robot. Rumlow disappears in the leftover chaos of the destroyed town. Thor ditches Jane, in an overly touchy-feely moment, to travel on a rainbow bridge with his very own fellowship to go rage at his brother.

Darcy Lewis refuses to freakout. 

Darcy only sees the stranger once more while she is in New Mexico.

He pulls her to the ground and shields her with his body as the gas station not to far from her explodes.

Because the town is under attack from a big robot from outer space that breaths fire. According to Thor, and his four knights of the round table—Zena, Jackie Chan, Robin Hood and Gimli—the thing was sent here by Thor’s brother, Loki, to destroy Thor so Loki can rule Asgard.

Gods, you know?

But whatever. Darcy’s not freaking out that half the town is on fire, and no one has yet to land a proper hit on the giant metal dude. She refuses to freakout. 

“Rumlow,” the stranger tells her as he pulls her to her feet. He’s decked out in tactical gear, and his callous hands are rough against hers. “Brock Rumlow.”

Jane screams. Darcy moves to run after her, but is stopped when a strong arm wraps around her waist. She is pulled backwards against a strong chest.

Darcy watches as Jane sprints towards a defeat Thor. Jane is crying over him. Darcy is struggling to get to her. The stranger, Brock, doesn’t let her go. He doesn’t even flinch through all of Darcy’s wiggling and kicking. 

Together they watch as the alien destroyer walks away from their small group in the center of the town. 

They watch as something, a few miles away, shoots up into the sky, at a speed that breaks the sound barrier, and arcs towards them.

Selvig runs for Jane, pulling her away from the unconscious Thor laying on the ground as the object heads right for him. 

The clear sky thunders as a storm picks up above them. Lightening strikes the ground, engulfing Thor in a bright unnatural light.

“Goddamn,” Rumlow mumbles next to her.

Her sentiments exactly, as the destroyer turns around to face their group again.

The lightening dissipates and Thor stands up in full medieval armor—metal chest piece and long flowing red cape included.

The whole situation wraps up with Thor, an actual God, playing the world’s greatest Whack’a’mole with the giant alien robot. Rumlow disappears in the leftover chaos of the destroyed town. Thor ditches Jane, in an overly touchy-feely moment, to travel on a rainbow bridge with his very own fellowship to go rage at his brother.

No joke.

Which is cool, good for him. But that leaves Jane on earth with a smidgen of hope that her loverboy will return. Ever wonder what a genius can do with a little hope?

She can change the world, that’s what. Which Darcy was totally game for. Together, with Selvig, they spend the next eight days cataloging every variation of gamma output in whatever atmosphere by the glowy thingies in the sky. Darcy doesn’t know, but she cheers Jane on by fixing every duct tape repair and electrical mishap the Bosslady needs.

On the ninth day, Darcy moves out of her trailer for it to be resold, discovers a bottle of expensive whiskey that had been left on her kitchen table by a variable unknown, and boards a plane back to Culver University.

Only the whiskey tastes familiar and her ticket is upgraded from coach to first-class.

Darcy Lewis refuses to freakout.

Because why freakout over random nice things when, instead, she can freakout about her future—and if aliens are going to invade.

You know, normal things.

Because as Darcy walks across the stage to the sound of her mother’s obnoxious cheering, she comes to an unfortunate realization.

She has no future plans, no plans at all, of what to do next.

She shakes the Dean’s hand, and graciously accepts the diploma and the half-assed congratulations with a plastered smile on her face. 

She steps of the stage and walks, and walks, and walks. She passes the turn where she is suppose to follow the other graduates. She passes the rows and rows of chairs set up for the ceremony. She continues walking out into the lobby and stops.

Her back hits the wall and her hands are on her knees. She breathes. Slowly in, slowly out. In and out. In and out, until the room stops spinning and she can get a moment to just think.

“You tased an ancient war God, back-talked to trained military agents, and this is what gets to you?” a voice asks.

She looks up to find Brock Rumlow standing over her.

“I don’t have a job,” she says as she looks him over. “I just graduated on the Dean’s list with a Political Science degree and I don’t have a job. Statistics say it takes roughly three months to find a job. That means for the next three months, I’m back at my mother’s house. I think the only known thing my father and I have in common is that we don’t want to be suck in the same house as my mother.”

Damn him. He looks good, too good, in black slacks and a black button down shirt against his tanned skin. He’s got the sleeves rolled up and gel slicking back his dark hair.

He offers her and hand, and she lets him pull her up close to him, “Let me take you out to dinner tonight, a proper date.”

“There you are,” her mother says, interrupting whatever Darcy was going to say. The woman’s shoes clunk loudly on the tile floor as she makes her way to Darcy and Brock.

Brock doesn’t look away from Darcy as the woman approaches.

“I was thinking,” her mother says as she gets close. She digs through her small designer clutch, pulling out a box of cigarets, “that we should go out dancing. There’s some nice clubs on campus, right?”

She sticks the stick in her mouth and fumbles with the lighter.

Brock finally turns away from Darcy to smoothly flick open a zippo lighter.

“Thanks,” her mother says as she eye’s Brock up and down. “Who are you, handsome?” 

Her smile is a little to curvy, a little too much teeth. 

“Rumlow,” Brock says. 

His eyes don’t leave her mother’s face. He doesn’t look down at the display of cleavage wrapped up tightly in a leopard print dress. Darcy know’s it cost the woman a pretty penny—the cleavage, and the dress. He doesn’t look at her legs, shaped in too tall of heels.

Instead he turns back to Darcy, “Darcy and I have plans, actually.”

Darcy could kiss him.

“Really?” her mother asks, doubt clear in her voice. “Her?”

“I’ll pick you up from your place at 7. Wear a dress.”

He leaves both woman standing there with their mouths open.

“Where did you find him?” her mother asks.

“You really don’t want to know,” Darcy says as she watch Brock walk away.

Darcy has a date. She refuses to freakout.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The plot is beginning. Fear not, there will be more smut to come.


	3. Dinner of Fortunes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I can feel them looking at me,” Darcy says softly. “Like they know I don’t belong here, in this fancy place where the waiters expect you to know the secret routine to properly approve the wine before he pours it. I’m wearing a dress I bought from target and the only pair of heels I own. And you’re sitting in front of me talking about ‘settling down’ and you’ve only just met me.”

Rumlow shows up at her door right at seven o’clock.

Darcy’s in a nice dress with her hair done up in curls, and her lips painted red. She looks good. She feels good. She ignores her mother’s snide words, because Brock is only looking at her.

He take her to an expensive restaurant in Arlington. The place is a few blocks away from the cemetery, and serves a three course meal with a selection of 17 different cuts of steak.

Brock gets a bottle of red wine, with an Italian name that rolls off his tongue. He tells her how it reminded him of his mother.

He orders her an expensive cut of meat with a touch of red in the center.

“What exactly is it you do for a living?” Darcy asks between bites. The steak is flavorful and tender, and Darcy struggles to not make noise in appreciation of the awesomeness in her mouth. He wipes his mouth off on the napkin, “I do bad thing, sweetheart, and I do them very well. But you already knew that.”

“You work for the government,” Darcy prompts as she cuts a few more bite size pieces from the steak on her plate.

Brock chuckles, “Are you asking specifically what I do, or was that a comment on your faith in the government?”

Darcy shrugs her shoulders, looking around at the gorgeous dress and perfect manners that litter the fancy restaurant. The place has low lighting and hardwood floors. The tables are covered in a dark red fabric that fits with the Victorian decor. The noise of the other guest are surprisingly quiet in the main dinning area.

“Political science major,” Darcy says, “My favorite topic is the Downsian model. Which argues, that society as a collective will rationalize ignorance when it comes to voting and political decisions outside party lines. The professor was really interesting and inspired a lot of discussions on the affect it can have on underrated unpopular issues.”

“Like global security or foreign policy, for example,” Brock nods along.

“Exactly,” Darcy says, gesturing wildly with her eating utensils, “People would rather give up their freedoms, than to take the time to educate themselves in order to argue the issues.”

Brock hums, “But for it to be in the best interest of the society as a whole, the collective needs to do both steps.”

He leans forward bracing his elbows on the table, “Be honest with me, would you trust Joe Blow from wherever, Mississippi, having nothing more than a high school education to properly converse on whether or not STRIKE should cross sovereign boarders to act in US interest?”

“To entertain that point brings us back around to the original idea,” Darcy says as she leans towards him, “I wouldn’t trust a random person to know what they are talking about because they wouldn’t bother to take the time to learn about the ethics of covert military operations in foreign countries since it’s not a hot-button issue.”

“So, could you argue that it’s in society’s best interest to not let the uneducated masses have a say in the behind-the-scenes choices?” Brock asks, before taking another sip of his wine. Darcy leans back in her chair. As he drinks, she does another sweep of her eyes over the restaurant.

“Do you have an interest in this stuff? You seem to know a lot about it,” Darcy asks once he sets his glass down.

“It’s a relatively new interest. I’ve got a not so pretty past, made a lot of money, but this ethics and moral dilemma crap is new to me,” he cuts another piece of his stake and eats it, “I’m starting a new life, settling down on the right side of history, with a good job where I make a difference. All I need now is a good girl to settle down with me.”

“That’s a serious thing to say,” Darcy tells him. She’s holding both a knife and a fork, but doesn’t make any move to eat more of her food. Instead she’s staring at him.

“I’m not going to lie to you,” he says with a dismissive wave of his hand.

“We only just met,” Darcy points out.

“I know you,” he says confidently.

Darcy scoffs, then looks around the room again, “Well I don’t know you.”

“Does this place make you nervous?” he asks.

“What?”

“This place, you keep glancing around,” Brock says.

Darcy fidgets as she takes a drink of wine. She sets the glass down on the table, but her fingers linger on the stem of the glass.

“I can feel them looking at me,” she says softly. “Like they know I don’t belong here, in this fancy place where the waiters expect you to know the secret routine to properly approve the wine before he pours it. I’m wearing a dress I bought from target and the only pair of heels I own. And you’re sitting in front of me talking about ‘settling down’ and you’ve only just met me.”

“They all think it matters where you’re coming from, the right name with a good background. It doesn’t. It matters where your going and what you’re about to do,” Brock explains.

“And what are you going to do?” Darcy asks him.

“I’m going to D.C. after this. I’m going to help change the world, the future. I know a guy, works in government, looking to hire a political threat analysis,” Brock gets up from his seat and pulls her chair out, while picking up her coat from the back of the chair. He holds it open for her, “You coming with me?”

Darcy stands up, turns slightly to let him help her with her coat. She doesn’t give him an answer, at least not verbally. But letting him rest his hand on her back as he leads her out of the restaurant might be an answer all in itself.

“Rumlow,” a voice calls.

Brock moves between the voice and Darcy.

“Go wait outside for me,” he whispers to Darcy.

Darcy listens to him, and makes her way to the door, after getting a good look at the unwelcome guest.

He’s thin, angular face with a rich guy’s hairdo, wearing a three piece suit.

She hears Brock great him as, “Bakshi”.

She also notices his eyes stalking her.

Until Rumlow says something she can’t hear and the man’s eyes snap to him.

Darcy faces the door and doesn’t look back again until she’s outside on the curb.

There she waits, and waits, and waits.

At the fifth time to check the time on her phone, marking a total laps of 15 minutes, Darcy steps out on the street and hails a cab home.


	4. Tall Dark Italian

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Darcy pulls off the Starbucks cap and run a hand through her curly brown hair. “I don’t know anything about you,” she says.
> 
> “I’m from the Bronx. I never met my father, lived with my mother until I joined the marines. I like soccer, movies, good food, new toys, Italian wine, and you,” Brock spread his hands out, “What else do you need to know?”

“Tall, half-caff, soy latte at 120 Degree,” the fake blonde in the overpriced pantsuit hands over her credit card to Darcy without bothering to look up from her Starkphone.

Darcy huffs out a breath of air that blows her bangs from her face and moves to write the order on the cup.

She had shown up this morning looking for a tall caffeinated beverage of her own, only to find the Starbucks swamped and understaffed. 

The manager offered her job, promising time and a half if she could jump in right that moment and man the registers. 

After two whole days of scouring D.C. for any and every entry level paying job pertaining to politics, and finding nothing—Darcy reluctantly accepted.

“Grande, Quad, Nonfat, One-Pump, No-Whip, Mocha,” the next guy in line orders.

Darcy just stares.

“Well?” the guy asks.

“8.56. Cash or credit?” Darcy asks.

The man hands over his card. Darcy swipes it, hits a couple buttons and hands it back to the guy.

“Next?” she asks as she writes the previous order on a large size cup.

“You ran out on me,” Brock Rumlow says.

Darcy looks up, and slams the empty cup on the metal counter in front of her. “You left me standing on the side walk.”

“I’m ready to order,” the guy behind Brock says.

He’s in a suit, and clearly in a hurry. They both ignore him.

“If you’re gonna be my girl, you’re gonna have to swear you’ll never do that again,” Brock says with a slight shake of his head.

Darcy crosses her arms in front of her and leans against the counter. 

“Look, dude—“ Darcy begins.

“Uh, grande mocha frap,” the suit says.

“I’m not your girl,” Darcy continues, “And I’m not going to say that.”

Brock puts both hands on the counter and leans forward in to Darcy’s personal space.

“I’m waiting,” he tells her.

“So am I,” the guy behind him says.

“I’m never gonna run out on you ever again, say the words,” Brock says, over pronouncing each couple of words.

“No,” Darcy snarls.

“Well, I am never gonna run out on you, that’s a promise,” Brock tells her.

“Well, I want to run out of here, so lady, can you take my order?” the man behind Brock asks.

Brock cuffs the man over the head, before reaching past Darcy for the large size cup and the sharpie laying on the counter. He scribbles something on the cup and places it inline with the other order.

“You won’t be taken other people’s coffee orders anymore, either.

Darcy is staring at the man Brock had just assaulted.

“Why did you do that?” she asks Brock.

“Because you’re with me now,” Brock explains. “No one is going to get away with treating you like that.”

Darcy pulls off the Starbucks cap and run a hand through her curly brown hair. “I don’t know anything about you,” she says.

“I’m from the Bronx. I never met my father, lived with my mother until I joined the marines. I like soccer, movies, good food, new toys, Italian wine, and you,” Brock spread his hands out, “What else do you need to know?”

Darcy looks over at the manager who had hired her just a few hours ago.

He raises and eyebrow at her, and then gives Brock a once over. When he looks back at Darcy, he’s got a teasing smirk on his face. 

Darcy waves goodbye and grabs her bag as she leaves out the back of the cafe.

Brock is waiting outside for her. 

“You can do better,” he tells her. “You’re sharp. You think analytically. You solve problems before they get a chance to become problems. You, little girl, would be wasted in a place like this.”

“Hiring season is over,” Darcy tells him. 

Her arms are still crossed in front of her, and she’s yet to get close to him.

“One phone call, hell just an office drop by, and I can get you an interview. The rest will be up to you, but I have faith,” Brock says.

He gestures towards the busy street with a jerk of his head and starts walking, leaving Darcy to rush after him.

“What would I be doing at this job,” she asks once she’s next to him. She is having to walk quicker than her usual pace to match his long legs.

“Entry level work. You’d be gathering data, learning how to turn it in to a strategy plan to explain to laymen and executives alike. You’d be working under some good people, who will help you climb the ranks quickly,” Brock explains as he leads a path through the crowded D.C. Streets. 

“Starting salary?” Darcy asks.

She grabs his arm on instinct as the flow of traffic almost knocks her over. Brock wraps an arm over her shoulder to help.

“The original offer is $55 grand, but don’t take anything less than $62,000,” he advices.

“Okay,” Darcy says slowly, “I was expecting something around $48,000 for an entry level with zero work experience.”

“Zero?” Brock questions, “What do you call your interactions with Thor?”

“That doesn’t count,” Darcy immediately denies.

“Really,” Brock drawls, “What do you think would have happened if the situation with him wasn’t handled in the way it was? If you had left him at the hospital, or worse someone in prisoned the Asgard prince somewhere? We could have gone to war with a world we know nothing about.”

Darcy stops walking, and turns to face him.

He’s smirking down at her.

“One,” Darcy says, holding up a finger in his face, “how do you know about that? And two, no one is suppose to know about that—so it’s not like I can bring it up at interviews.”

“One, it’s my job to know things. Two, you can talk about it at this place,” Brock points to the building they had been walking towards.

“What is this place?” Darcy asks, holding a hand up to shield herself from the sun as she studies the building.

It stood tall in the sky with a modern design full of windows and cement.

“This is the Triskelion, S.H.I.E.L.D. Headquarters,” Brock tells her.

“Holy shit,” she says.

He laughs at her and tugs her forward.

“There is a guy I know who is looking for someone like you. Act confident, pretend you know what your doing—get hired and you can learn it all later. Deal?”

Darcy nods slowly, “Yeah, deal.”

They walk in, Brock ignores everyone his way to the elevator, flashing his badge and glaring at people to move. Darcy follows behind him, attempting to absorb everything about the state-of-the-art building.

Brock leads her into a spacious office with a decent view of the Potomac river out the floor-to-ceiling windows that make up the far wall.

There is a man sitting at the only desk in the room. He’s bald, wearing glasses, and has a pile of used tissues on his desk next to him.

“Jasper Sitwell,” Brock greats the man.

Mr. Sitwell looks between Brock and Darcy, clicks a couple times on his computer, then gives them his full undivided attention.

“Agent Rumlow, it’s been a while,” Sitwell says.

Brock nods his head, “Sir, I’m here to solve all your problems.”

“Really?” Sitwell drawls.

“I found you a new political analysis, Darcy Lewis from Culver University,” Brock explains.

Sitwell looks her over with a clinical eye, “I’m available for an interview right now, does that work for you?” 

“Absolutely,” Darcy says as she digs through her bag to pull out a folder with her resume in it.

Brock wishes her a quiet ‘good luck’ and an ‘I’ll see you later’ before leaving.

“Now, Lewis, was it?” Sitwell asks with a welcoming smile on his face. “What’s your opinion on the government’s current public safety policies?”


	5. Mother Dearest

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “The doc’s a fluke,” he mother says as she walks around Darcy and starts pulling of couch cushions. 
> 
> “I found her off the internet,” Darcy stands up in frustration. “Over 500 people recommended her on yelp. She’s got an office at a Woman’s Clinic and everything. How is she a fluke?”
> 
> “I don’t know,” her mother flails her arms as she searches the room, “Look, it’s no big deal.”

“Darcy Lewis?” the short woman in navy scrubs and auburn hair read off a clipboard.

Darcy gestures in a half wave-half acknowledgement at the woman as she stands up.

“Hello, I’m Doctor Montgomery, how are you today?” the woman greets. She doesn’t offer a hand, instead turns and leads Darcy back to the offices.

“Oh, I’m fine,” Darcy says a few steps behind the woman. The hallways were white linoleum tile flooring with high wattage lights hanging above. The doctor leads Darcy through the maze that is the back half of Doctor offices to a far hallway.

After being measured and weighed, the woman leads Darcy through to another hallway into the woman’s office.

“Got a new job, got a new guy hanging around,” Darcy says to break the awkward silence that had settled, as she climbs up onto the pink patient’s bed. “which is why I’m here today.”

The doctor hums as she types a few things in to the computer, then turns back to Darcy with a smile. “Am I assuming you are here to talk about birth control?”

“Yes,” Darcy says, then shifts uncomfortably. “I used to be on it, during high school and most of my college years. The kind that suppressed periods. I had an internship that put me in the middle of the desert, where I ran out of pills—which was fine until this super hot guy at this bar, and long story short, which is probably too long already, he’s fantastic in bed and Plan B is hard to find in New Mexico.”

The doctor hums again.

“So, the quicker I can get back on it, the better,” Darcy says, then pauses, “The birth control, not the guy. Well, I mean—“

“Yes,” the doctor says, interrupting Darcy’s rambling. “Let’s do a quick check-up to makes sure everything is how it is suppose to be. Then, I’ll write you a same-day prescription. How’s that sound?”

“Golden.”

The doctor steps out of the room, letting Darcy quickly change into the paper gown and get situated on bed with her legs in the stirrups.

The doctor returns a few minutes later, and rolls right up. It says a lot about herself, Darcy figures, that sitting here with a woman between her legs using metal tools to explore her bits with a clinical precision doesn’t rank in her ‘most awkward situations I’ve gotten myself into’ list. 

No, because as soon as the doctor looks up at Darcy with a confused expression, this is definitely ranked top of her top 3 ‘WTF’ moments.

“Darcy, when is the last time you had a screening?” the doctor asks is a calm voice that does nothing to keep Darcy calm.

“Um, right before college? Why? What’s wrong?”

“Is that when you were given birth control?” The doctor asks.

Darcy nods.

“Do you remember the name of the doctor?”

“No,” Darcy says, “It was a guy—and old man, with a Russian Name.”

“And you’ve been on birth control since? You haven’t had any surgeries, nothing as happened?”

“What’s wrong?” Darcy repeats.

“Darcy,” the woman falters for a moment, “Dear, you don’t have uterus or a cervix. You don’t need birth control.”

“Excuse me?”

The doctor looks baffled, “You have had a hysterectomy. Dear, you don’t need birth control after that. It’s a little redundant.”

Darcy opens her mouth to ask the thousands of questions flying through her head. “How,” she starts, “Why,” she changes her mind “I—“. She can’t concentrate. She can focus. The rooms spins. Her lungs hurt.

“Breathe,” the doctor orders. Darcy can feel the woman’s hands on her shoulders. Darcy’s own hands start to tingle.

“I, I didn’t—“

The doctor is talking. Her lips are moving. Darcy tries to focus. The woman’s lips stick has smeared on her front tooth. It’s an awful shade, a little too orange to work for her pale skin tone and red hair.

“Darcy can you hear me? I need you to focus on me, can you do that?” the doctor asks. 

Darcy nods.

“It’s going to be okay. You are fine. Do you hear me? You are physically fine. There isn’t anything wrong with you. I know this probably changes a few things for you down the road. But say it with me, I, Darcy Lewis, am fine. I’m in perfect health.”

“I,” Darcy licks her lips, “I’m fine. I’m healthy.”

“Yes, yes you are,” the doctor hugs her tight. Darcy hesitates for a moment, before hugging the woman back.

“I have a friend,” the doctor says, letting go of Darcy. “That I would like you to meet. She focus on women who go through things similar to what you are going through. I would like you to call her. Can I give you her number?”

Darcy nods. 

“Will you promise me that you will talk to someone, if not her?”

Darcy nods again.

“Is there someone you can call to pick you up?”

Darcy shakes her head in the negative, and then finally speaks, “I’ll be fine. That was just… unexpected. I’m going to be okay, don’t worry about me.”

The doctor nods slowly. She writes the number down on a sticky note and leaves with Darcy’s clothes, before leaving Darcy alone in the room to change again. 

Darcy pays the $45 fee and leaves. She takes the 5 o’clock train home and collapses on her living room couch. She doesn’t turn the tv on, or open a book. She just sits there, and tries to piece together everything.

“Oh, you’re still here?” her mother asks as she breezes into the living room. “Have you seeing my Jimmy Choo’s? I’ve got a date tonight. He’s an art collector here in town—“

“What did you do to me?” Darcy ask.

“What are you talking about? What did I do to you—is this some sort of scam where you want me to pay for some new age fancy therapy?”

“The hysterectomy I don’t remember having.” Darcy explains, her voice getting a little louder. “What did you do to me?”

Her head is in her hands, with her elbows resting on her knees. She doesn’t look up at her mother until she notices the lack of noise the woman is making.

Darcy looks up.

Her mother is wearing a low-cut skin tight red dress, with her makeup and hair done for a night out on the town. She’s got one nude heel in her hand and she is starring at Darcy with an unreadable look on her face.

“The doc’s a fluke,” he mother says as she walks around Darcy and starts pulling of couch cushions. 

“I found her off the internet,” Darcy stands up in frustration. “Over 500 people recommended her on yelp. She’s got an office at a Woman’s Clinic and everything. How is she a fluke?”

“I don’t know,” her mother flails her arms as she searches the room, “Look, it’s no big deal.”

“No big deal?”

“Yes, it’s no big deal. What? Did this interrupt your plans to be one of those girls who tries to catch a man with a baby?” her mother mocks. “Why else would you want a snot nose kid?”

“As your previously snot nosed, current young adult offspring, I’m offended,” Darcy crosses her arms across her chest and stands direct in her mother’s path.

Her mother rolls her eyes.

“Did you really think you were wanted?” her mother asks. 

Darcy balks.

“Oh, found it,” her mother says, reaching around Darcy and pulling the missing pair of heel from between the side armrest and the couch cushion.

“Be honest with me for once in our lives, did you do this to me?” Darcy asks.

Her mother looks at her, attention solely on Darcy for the first time since the woman entered the room.

“You really think I did this? As, what? Some sort of graduation present?” her mother asks in a tone Darcy can’t place.

The doorbell rings.

“Don’t wait up for me, I’m hoping he’s husband number 7,” her mother winks at her before leaving.

The door opens and closes, and Darcy is alone again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, this is not at all the direction I had planned when I first started writing this. It is an idea that popped up and I really want to see where it goes. I'm kind of really excited about it. Let me know what you think?  
> Brock is back next chapter!


	6. A Real Gent

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There are a lot of different ways to cope with what she’s been through today. Dragging Brock to her childhood bedroom and asking, in the politest way Darcy knows how, for him to spank her, probably isn’t the healthiest of options.

Three hours later, Brock Rumlow shows up at her doorstep.

He’s in dark wash jeans, and a black v-neck with a hint of a tattoo on his shoulder Darcy hadn’t noticed before.

“Thought I’d take you out to eat, let you tell me all about how your interview went,” he says.

The interview, it seems like it had been weeks since this morning’s interview. 

“That’d be sweet. A real gent of you,” Darcy tells him.

He gives her a funny look.

Darcy grabs his shirt and pulls him into the house.

“But we’ve got the house all to ourselves, all night.”

His eyes roam over her, head to toe, in a heated glance.

There are a lot of different ways to cope with what she’s been through today. Dragging Brock to her childhood bedroom and asking, in the politest way Darcy knows how, for him to spank her, probably isn’t the healthiest of options.

But the way he backs her against the wall and leaves bruises and bite marks on her neck, the way he behind her, solid and unwavering, and gets a hand down the front of her jeans when she half way up the stairs, the way his hands and mouth work her over before she’s reached the bedroom or even sheds a piece of clothing—she really couldn’t think of a better way to get her mind off her complicated life. 

Darcy strips for him, taking her time to peel off each layer of clothing. He watches, from where he’s leaning against her dresser, with a predator’s focus. 

She unzips her black dress reveals cream colored lingerie. She turns her back to him, with a cheeky wink, and unclasps her bra. She lets it fall to the floor. Then, she slips her fingers underneath the elastic of her panties and slides them over the curve of her ass, and down her soft legs.

He’s on her, hands reaching around her to cup her breast, to pull her nipple, to return to petting her between her legs.

“Little girl,” he whispers in her ear, pushing her forward, with his body, to the bed, “wrap your hands around the headboard.”

He releases her and she crawls up her bed to the headboard. It’s wood painted white, with girly cutouts that match the night stand and dresser. All of which go with the light blush color on the walls and the stuff animals shoved in the corner of her room.

Darcy feels his lips on the dimples of her back. He’s kissing, nipping, and sucking, as he inches up her spine.

Darcy shudders, making noises that has him chuckling. She bites her bottom lip. He reaches the nape of her neck and bites hard. She jerks, letting go of the headboard.

He sinks his hands into her hair and pulls her up to him.

“I thought you were going to be a good girl?” he whispers in her ear.

He pushes her back down, and her fingers wrap around the post of the headboard.

A sharp pain hits her backside, causing Darcy to cry out.

“Are you going to be a good girl for me?” Brock teases.

Darcy nods, rewarded with another spank.

Darcy jumps, but doesn’t let go of the headboard.

“Are you going to do whatever I ask of you?”

She nods again, and again his hand slaps down on her. She cries out again against the warmth spread on her backside.

“Such a pretty little ass,” he growls, spanking her two more times.

Darcy is breathing heavily as Brock trails a hand up the inside of her thigh. His fingers dance along her skin, running lightly when he reaches her apex. 

“Brock,” Darcy pleads 

He pulls her hair tighter. Her breath hitches.

His thumb rubs circles over her clit, alternating between slow and light touches to harder pressure and quicker movements.

Darcy arches her back, pushing against his hand.

He backs off, “tsk, tsk, greedy little girl.”

“Brock,” Darcy moans.

He sinks one finger into her. She groans at it not being enough.

He adds a second finger, pushing a little harder on her clit with his thumb.

“Brock,” her voice is breathy, coming out in pants. Her body trembles against him, “Please,”

“You beg so prettily,” he kisses her temple and curves his fingers in her forwards.

Darcy clamps her eyes shut as her body clenches around his fingers. Her muscles jolt and she mewls loudly.

“There’s my good girl.”

He runs his hands up and down her sides, kissing her temple, her cheek, and the side of her neck.

He pulls her hips back and lines himself up. He moves forward, giving her inch by inch as he stretches her.

She moans out his name, with her eyes still closed and her back arched for him.

He bottoms out, still against her, before pulling back out at the same agonizing pace.

She can feel him, every bit of his intrusion.

He lets go of her hair to grab both sides of her hips. He starts to move faster, jerking his hips forward, then slowly pulling out.

She lets her head fall between her shoulders as she braces herself against the headboard.

He jerks his hips forward again, scooting the bed as he moves. 

Then, he drags himself out again.

Quicker, he snaps his hips forward.

Darcy pushes her ass out against him. 

He does it again, and again, and again.

He creates a rhythms, as the bed hits the wall, as sounds of skin meets skins. Darcy’s moans turn to whimpers.

“Brock, Brock, Brock, Brock,” she begs. 

A feeling of warmth grew in the pit of her stomach and the end of her spine. It spread rolling up her spine, locking up her thighs and tensing at her shoulders. 

Brock moves a hand back to her clit, pinching and pulling in sync. The other hand pulls her hips back roughly and slaps down on her ass.

She cries out, clenching around him. 

He grunts, pulling out of her and flipping her on to her back.

He lifts one of her legs over his shoulder, and pushes back into her.

Her breath catches as he returns to pounding into her.

She runs her hands up his chest to the back of his neck. He grabs both of her hands in one of his, pushing them down above her head.

She’s panting, squirming, and mindless. She’s begging and arching, her hands twist in his grip looking for something, anything.

His other hand grabs her face, forcing her to meet his eyes. 

“Mine,” Brock growls as his hips jerk a few more times.

Darcy wraps her legs around him as she feels him finish inside her.

He leans on his elbows on each side of her head, hands threading through her hair, bracket her with his body.

He kisses her, as she mumbles incoherently.

“I’ve got you,” he says, dropping a kiss on her nose. “My pretty little girl.”

He continues to pet her and kiss her, as she comes back to herself.

Darcy wraps her arms around his shoulders. He stays with her, letting her snuggle in to him.


	7. The Start of Something

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> But, Darcy knows better. Things that seem too good to be true, usually are. There has to be a catch, right? He mentioned a past, and he works for a sketchy government intelligence agency. She’s just… Darcy.

Darcy wakes up to a cold and empty bed. She pulls the covers over her head and tries to go back to sleep. But there is a clattering noise of metal hitting metal that won’t let her return to snoozing.

The more awake see gets, the quicker her brain starts piecing things together. Like, that the noise is coming from the downstairs, that someone must be in the house to be making that noise, that she fell asleep with Brock Rumlow.

Darcy sits up in her bed, and looks around the room. Her clothes from last night are strewn across her bedroom floor. Darcy untangles herself from her sheets and crawls out of the warm comforter. She grabs a t-shirt off the floor as she makes her way to the bathroom. 

She rummages through a few drawers. She tosses a broken foundation compact, and an almost empty old pack of pills, before finding a hair tie to tame her wild morning mane with. She does a quick rinse and spit of mouth wash and attempts to wipe off yesterday’s mascara that had turned in to today’s raccoon look. 

Once she deems herself acceptable looking for the morning, she follows the smell of cinnamon and vanilla to find Brock in her kitchen, cooking. He’s wearing only his boxers with a bad case of bedhead. He standing there at the stove with a pan in on hand and a spatula in the other. There is a tall stack of something underneath a towel on the counter next to him.

Darcy slides up behind him, wrapping her arms around his waist.

“What’s cookin’ good lookin’?” she asks, standing on her tip-toes to rest her chin on his shoulder. 

“Hungry,” he says. His voice is guttural and husky, with his Bronx accent coming out heavy, “Thought I’d do something about it.”

“You’re the sweetest,” Darcy says, leaning up to smack a kiss on his cheek, before leaning pass him to peak at what was under the towel. It’s slices of french toast piled high.

“Do we have any plans today?” Darcy asks, stealing a piece before he could wave her off.

“Nah, anything you want to do?” He asks, flipping a slice on the pan.

“I need to go shopping for work clothes,” Darcy tells him as she hops up on the counter. It’s cold from the morning chill of the D.C. air. 

“You got the job, then?” Brock asks, looking her way out of the corner of his eye. 

Darcy smiles, “Yeah, I was really surprised, you know? Like I thought it would have taken longer or something.” She ducks her head and opens the cabinet above her, “But Mr. Sitwell said the background check they had on file from when they originally searched me in New Mexico would count and there were a few other things he waved to speed up the process.” 

She pulls down a mug and loosely gestures at Brock. He seemed to know what she was asking as he nods his head affirmatively. “Part of me thinks I should be skeptical of the whole thing—like it’s too good to be true. But it’s a job. You know?”

Darcy pulls down a second one, continuing her story as she does, “I’ve got a probation period for the next three months, and I’ve got to do this basic training thing, which I’m not so psyched about.” 

Next she starts fiddling with the coffee maker.

Brock nods, flipping another slice, “SHIELD likes to know that their people can take care of themselves. You won’t ever have to go into the field, but they want you to know a good bit of self defense. That’s all it is.”

“I figured. So, to answer your original question,” Darcy says with a laugh as the coffee maker starts heating up, “I need to go shopping, then Jane was to grab a bite later.”

“Am I invited on this shopping trip?” Brock asks as he piles the slices on to the plate, and points to the table. He’s got a look in his eye, that she can’t place.

Darcy hops down off the counter, and grabs the pitcher of coffee out of the machine and fills the two mugs. Then follows Brock to the table. 

Brock sits at the head of the table and folds up the newspaper in a way that he can read the section while holding it in one hand. He hold the fork in the other hand and does a damn good effort to make a dent in the pile of dry french toast piled high on his plate. 

Darcy plops down on the chair next to him and immediately drenches her smaller pile in syrup. She gets a few good bites in before he starts talking.

“I’ve got to leave tonight. Mission. Classified,” he tells her between bites. 

Darcy hesitates on her bite, wanting to ask him a million questions, like; where, for how long, what does that mean for the two of us, is their a two of us, how much are you allowed to tell me?

But all that gets out is, “Will you bring me back something nice?”

He smiles at her as he reaches out and tugs on a loose strand of her hair.

“Sure thing, pet,” he says, then turns back to the newspaper.

Darcy watches him take a few more bites, before taking her next one. 

She wants to believe him. She so desperately wants to believe in him, in the fairy tale story he’s spun for her. ‘Looking to settle down,’ he had told her. ‘Never going to run out on you,’ he had promised. He swept in to her life like the sun after a midday rain shower, like a huge gust of wind before a hurricane. He could be the best thing for her, a savior that gets her out of a bad past. He’s been that, hasn’t he? Got her a nice job, and took her out to a nice place for a first day. 

But, Darcy knows better. Things that seem too good to be true, usually are. There has to be a catch, right? He mentioned a past, and he works for a sketchy government intelligence agency. She’s just… Darcy.

He can be the worse thing for her. She can buy in to it, hook, line, and sinker. She can let him in, let him know her, let him become something safe and treasured in her life. She could fall for him, easily. Then, he can do what everyone else does, and leaves. But this time, it would leave a hole, a wound. She can see it so clearly, he’d be the kind that scarred, that never quite healed right.   
He’d be a disaster, and a hell of an adventure.

“What do you say?” Brock asks, getting up out of his seat to rest his hands on her shoulder. “Gonna let me treat my favorite girl to something nice?” 

There has to be something, but does she care? Does it really matter? No, Darcy thinks as he drops a kiss to her temple. No, it doesn’t matter whatever flaw he’s got, because he’s looking at her. He’s kissing her. He’s here with her, and that’s what matters.


	8. Inquiring Minds

Darcy Lewis never considered herself to be the kind of girl who’d be in to the whole ‘sugar daddy’ thing. She liked her own things, the ones she paid for with the money she earned. It was a point of pride for her. She made it twenty-one years without a father, she didn’t need some other man to step in and ‘take care of her’. 

Yet, the way Brock’s eyes ran over her body, each time she stood in front of the mirror in Nordstrom trying on new outfit, made her blush from the intensity of being at the center of his attention. The way he tossed the pair of black Jimmy Choo heels she had been eyeing on to the counter, and handed the Barney’s cashier his black card like the comma on the price tag didn’t phase him, made her feel thankful in a way no one ever had before. The way he slipped in to her dressing room, made her feel naughty. 

“I like you in dresses,” he whispers in her ear as he pushes her against the wall. “I like you even better wearing only the panties I bought you.”

She pushes him away, “And I like not being kicked out of the mall for Public Indecency.” 

“Come on,” he says quietly, “I’m leaving for about two weeks.”

Brock wraps a hand around her hair and yanks her towards him. He drops his other hand to her waist, holding her against him as he kisses her.

Darcy tries to get away from him, pushing against his shoulders. But, he backs her against the dressing room wall.

“Brock, I mean it,” she growls.

She pushes against his broad shoulders, digging her nails into the black cotton fabric of his shirt.

He chuckles, pulling down on her hair. Darcy is forced to her knees. 

“No one will come back here, I made sure of it,” he unbuckles the front of his pants, “Now be a good girl for me.”

He watches her eyes dart to the curtain that serves as the door to the dressing room. She holds her breath, waiting for something.

“Trust me,” he tells Darcy.

Her eyes jump back to his. There is a look of indecision on her face, before she reaches a hand forward to help him free himself from the confines of his tight jeans.

She runs a hand over him, back and forth, slightly tightening her grip as she goes.

“Put your mouth on it,” Brock orders.

Darcy leans forward slightly, giving his leaking tip an experimental lick, before wrapping her lips around the head. 

She looks up, unsure.

Brock gives her hair a tug towards him, and she leans farther forward. She braces her self on his thighs, and when he loosens his grip on her hair, she slowly pulls back again.

He pulls her towards him, by her hair, again. He teaches her a rhythm. She struggles to keep up with it, as every time he pulls on her hair, it brings her farther down on him.

He watches as Darcy’s lips stretch around him, and her lipstick leaves a bright red mark on him. 

Darcy’s eyes start to water. Brock tightens his grip on her hair. His ab muscles dance in front of her eyes. He tilts his head back, eyes closed and mouth parted in a silent moan.

He pulls her even closer to him, as she slaps his thigh.

“There’s my good girl,” he moans.

He lets her go and she falls back, wiping her mouth on the back of her hand.

“You’re a dick,” Darcy pouts, as he does his pants up again, righting himself.

He chuckles, offering a hand to her, “But, I’m your dick.”

He pulls her up to him, and helps tame the mess of hair he created.

Darcy pushes him out of the dressing room. He relents, and grabs the clothes she approved of that are being stored on the rack outside her dressing room. He gives the assistant a wink as he walks by.

Darcy catches up to him at the cash register. He pays and she glares at him for it.

“How about I make it up to you. There’s a cheesecake Factory somewhere in the mall,” Brock offers, stealing a quick kiss against her lips.

“Dessert, too,” she adds.

“Greedy girl,” he coos in approval.

They move on to lighter subjects. Darcy gushes about her excitement on her new job, and Brock skillfully avoids giving classified information on his upcoming op. Despite Darcy’s artful questioning. 

They are seated quickly in a booth in the corner of the second floor of the restaurant.

Brock charms her with tails of his favorite places to travel. He shares a few funny stories from when ops had gonna tits up, as the waiter brings their dinner. One in particular where his second in command, Jack Rollins, almost gets himself killed by sleeping with the wife of a fancy oligarch. Darcy is in stitches as Brock tells her how Rollins had to fight through palace security, wearing nothing but a bedsheet.

The waiter replaces the empty plates with slices of chocolate cheesecake. 

Darcy digs in as Brock turns the subject of the conversation to being about her.

“What do you know about your mother?” Rumlow asks.

He sticks his fork in to his cheesecake, cutting off the tip of his slice.

Darcy takes another bite before answering, “That she’s my mother?”

“No,” Rumlow says, his first bite still on the fork. “I mean… Okay, so my mother was the daughter of immigrants, who came over here a little bit after world war two. The woman had opinions, like wealthy people had gold. She was convinced that Johnson put a hit out on Kennedy. She also believed that wearing white after labor day was up there with the other cardinal sins, even though she rarely wore white at all. She used to tell me that I shouldn’t trust anyone I meet out on the street, because the Russian’s had spies planted in the US. I’m asking about the stupid stuff like that.”

“She speaks Russian,” Darcy says, with a light bounce of her shoulders. “I don’t know why, or how. She said we moved here from Kansas or Arkansas or something. I’ve got a bad memory—don’t remember much of my childhood.”

Brock nods, finally taking his first bite. He gives it a moment to melt in his mouth, before asking “What about things from now?”

Darcy looks up at him in confusion, “Why are you asking, Brock?”

He looks down to his plate, and stabs his slice of cake, “Just wanting to get to know your family. First time I met her…”

Darcy goes back to eating, too, “Yeah, I’d like to say that was a rare occasion, or that she was in a bad mood. But that’s her, and that’s us. We fight and bitch at each other, but she’s my mom. You know?”

“Yeah,” Rumlow looks over at her empty plate.

He pushes the rest of his cheesecake towards her.

She digs into his.

* * *

Later that night, Agent Jack Rollins found Brock, in the bowels of the forensics corridor of the Triskelion, handing over a small clear bag over to the DNA consultant on duty.

“Trouble with your assignment?” Rollins jokes.

Brock shakes his head in the negative. He continues to stare at the people moving around the lab, with a pensive look on his face. 

“There is something more going on with her—I just don’t know what,” Rumlow explains. “I’m hoping this will give me a clue.”

“I thought we already ran her DNA,” Rollin says.

“They're testing her mother's.”


	9. Training Mishap

“This better be good,” Darcy says in greeting as she answers her cell phone.

She balances it between her ear and shoulder, to free up her hand to dig through her ridiculously oversized purse for her house keys.

“You blew me off yesterday!” Jane says over the phone.

Darcy fumbles with her keys, dropping them to the floor.

“Did not,” Darcy argues halfheartedly as she glares up at the cloudy sky.

Today is her first day at work and so far she has managed to wake up late, burn breakfast, and run out of liquid eye liner halfway through doing her makeup and had to use a pencil one for the other eye. Darcy picks up the keys and wiggles the plain black one into the lock on her front door.

“We had plans. I called you seven times and you never answered. In fact, you kept sending the call to voicemail.”

Darcy paused momentarily, the key was in the lock, but she didn’t turn it.

“What do you mean I kept sending you to voicemail. I didn’t even know you called,” Darcy says, still staring at the lock.

“Well, someone knew and then purposely ignored my calls. If it wasn’t you, then who?” Jane asks.

“Look, I don’t know.”

“Yes you do,” Jane argues.

Darcy lets out a sigh, “Either way, I’ve got to go. First day at work and I’m about to be running late.”

“Good luck,” Jane says in lieu of ‘goodbye’.

Darcy locks her door, throws both her keys and her phone into her purse, and makes her way to the train station.

Guilt was a funny thing, Darcy figured. It was there, like a bad stain on her shirt. If she thought about things, she could feel guilty for accidentally blowing off Jane. But, it’s not like she meant to. She could feel guilty for picking Brock over Jane, but it’s not like that was actually a conscious choice she made.

But, feeling a little guilty for spending the afternoon with Brock before he left on a mission, was sure as shit an easier thing to worry about compared to whatever Brock was doing with her phone. Because, when the hell did Brock manage to get her phone away from her?

Her mother alway said sneaky people are only sneak when they feel a need to be sneaky.

And really, screw him for making her think her mother was rational human being capable of giving decent advice. 

Darcy plops herself down on one of the available seats on the train, and watches out the window as the urban scenery of downtown D.C. whirls by.

20 minutes later she was exiting at her stop, and 12 minutes after that she is arriving two minutes late to her desk.

“You’re late,” her boss says. 

She doesn’t remember his name. It’s not the same one who did her interview. This man was tall and lanky, and his skin was so pale that the computer screens reflected off his greasy face.

“Sorry sir, still figuring out traffic,” Darcy lies.

He didn’t seem to buy it, or rather, didn’t seem to care. He handed her a page with a list of random words on it.

“Here’s how this works. You’re the intern, the newbie, the bottom of the totem pole. This is grunt work—your grunt work. You are to monitor these keywords on every social media site. Think you can handle that, sweetheart?”

Darcy bites back a growl at his condescending tone. Trends on social media? Yeah, she can handle that. So could 12 year old Darcy who thought Myspace was the bee’s knees. This was child’s play.

“Yes,” Darcy says instead. “Anything else?”

“Let’s start small.”

Darcy spends the next four hours setting up alerts and tracking down posters that focus on her set of topics.

The boss releases her and the other low totem pole dwellers for lunch. Darcy wants to roll her eyes, as if he actually has a say in when she eats. But, judging by the gleeful looks of her other starved co-workers, and the clock on her phone telling her it’s a little after one in the afternoon, maybe he does have a say.

The cafeteria is large and pristine, with a wide variety of food options. Darcy wades through the line for the daily Italian dish, spaghetti and meatballs. She pays for her meal, and walks towards the tables--only to have high school nightmare.

“You have got to be kidding me,” Darcy mutters to herself as she looks out over the tables.

Everyone is clustered into groups, talking amongst themselves. It reminded her of a high school cafeteria, where everyone was judged on who they sat and ate lunch with. Darcy lets out a heavy sigh and moves towards the table where the other people in her group are sitting. She sets her lunch tray down and gives a tentative smile to the closest person. Cameron, Darcy thinks his name is.

He’s small and geeky, and has ketchup spilt on his white short-sleeve button down. He smiles back at Darcy and asks how her first day is going. Darcy relaxes into the conversation, and lets it flow over her as she eats. It was a weird calm to the day, sitting here with strangers. It’s a nice break in her day, but it ends all too quickly.

Darcy gets up to throw her food away at the large trash can, and is stopped by, what can only be described as, a man-child.

He’s too tall, with sandy blond hair and brown eyes. He’s got a baby face that is scarless and soft. He’s wearing a shirt that looks like it had once fit him right, but that was too many attempts at washing it ago.

“You’re the new girl, right?” he asks. 

He’s got a smile on a teasing smile on his lips, like that was some sort of line.

“This is my first day, and I am a girl,” Darcy says slowly.

“Cool, ‘cus I’m the trainer for the non-combatant employees. I’ll be the one teaching you how to make a fist, and aim for the knees,” the guy says.

Darcy smiles, a little stiffly, “Awesome, dude. It starts at 7, right?”  
Darcy moves back a few steps, away from the trashcan. The guy takes a few steps towards her, keeping pace.

“Yeah, in the first level gym. I’ll see you there,” he waves as he turns to leave. “Oh, my name’s Kevin, by the way.”

He smiles at her. He gives her the same smile six hours later, when she shows up in an old stretched out shirt and yoga pants. Cameron is there, and she catches him rolling his eyes as their instructor, Kevin, explains what stretches are.

Kevin asks for a volunteer to assist him in showing the first sequence of defensive moves.

“Darcy will do it,” Cameron calls out

“Traitor,” Darcy bites out.

“Perfect,” Kevin smiles at her, and Cameron gives her a shit eating grin.

Darcy stands in front of Kevin, as he directs her. 

“Put your hand on the back of my neck,” Kevin says to her, then turns to the others gathered around, “The first thing I’m going to teach you is what to do when someone tries to grab you. We are going to start with the front. Then move on to the back.”

Darcy puts a hand on his neck. Kevin goes through a few options on what to do in this scenario. Everything is fine, fun even, as Darcy acts as his assistant.

That is, until Kevin pushes a little too hard on her elbow when he moves. Darcy spins off kilter for a moment before stumbling to the side. She trips over her own feet and slams down on the edge of the matted area. The back of her head hits the uncovered concrete.

The world spins. Darcy sees spots until she can’t see anything.

“Darcy? Darcy!” she hears as she falls unconscious.


	10. The Silent Op

She is on a stage, smiling and full of life. The bright lights are shining, blinding her of the packed audience. Her hair is pulled back tight in a bun, and the tulle of her dress fans out unwrinkled as she moves. The first notes of the orchestra begin to play. She smiles brightly, stepping in sync to the pull of the strings. It’s a beautiful dance she knows by heart.

* * *

“Shit, shit. Get medical down here, now!” Kevin, the instructor, yells out to the people standing around him. 

The training room was sparse for it being after work on a Monday. The only other people present besides that of his on group of trainees are a few unlucky S.H.I.E.L.D. employees who got to witness him almost killing one of his students.

In his defence, this was his first time actually teaching a group, and he wasn’t expecting Darcy Lewis to actually react in any way. Certainly not like a trained fighter. It was all instinct talking when he grabbed her. She moved unexpectedly, he wasn’t even sure if it was a conscious decision on her part, but his was a trained response. Now she’s knocked out on the ground and bleeding from the head.

His boss is going to kill him, and if the rumors are true, Brock Rumlow is going to bring him back to life just to tear out his fingernails and watch him bleed to death--or something like equally as nightmare inducing. 

He drops down on his knees next to her. There is blood oozing from the cut on Darcy’s head. Her body is lying mostly on the padded navy blue section of the floor, with only the top of her head on the white concrete floor that borders the training area. It’s original purpose was to provide a spot for higher-ups to watch in on the training without feeling like they are in the middle of the mayhem that is training. It also serves as a shortcut to the gym.

Kevin’s willing to bet they’re all regretting that choice of flooring right about now.

“Where the hell is medical?” he yells.

* * *

They had the farmhouse surrounded. A one-story ranch style house, with one bedroom and one bath. The house was located in northern Ukraine, not far from the Belarus border. It was the only house for a few miles. According to intel, their target purchased the house less than a month ago. The lights were off, and no movement was coming from the house.

Strike Agent Brock Rumlow stands on the back porch of the house. On the opposite side of the back door from him is Agent Natasha Romanoff, behind her by the window above the kitchen sink is Agent Jack Rollins. There are two agents behind Brock, and another behind Rollins. That, plus Agent Clint Barton hidden in the treeline ready to provide cover, is all he has for this mission. 

Brock holds his arm up, with three fingers showing.

They have been stalking their target for three months now. An unusually long amount of times for what equates to a shade arms distributer. Yet, every time they’ve gotten close, the target has slipped through their fingers.

Brock puts one finger down. Rollins uses the but of his gun to break the kitchen window and tosses a smoke grenade inside. Brock lowers another finger, and Romanoff kicks the back door in. Brock swings his arm down and five STRIKE agents follow Romanoff into the house.

“Clear,” he yells from the kitchen.

He can hear Rollins’ light steps behind him. The house creaks as they walk. There’s water in the sink, and a broken glass on the tile floor. He steps around it to the pantry on the far wall. It’s full of food. There is bread with a date of being only a few days old. There is a bunch of bananas out on the counter that has yet to start to turn brown.

“Clear,” Romanoff yells from the living room.

She has the other three agents with her checking over the living room. They all reconvene in front of the master bedroom.

“I don’t like this,” Romanoff says.

He nods. He doesn’t like it either. Something is off about this whole situation.

“The target was here,” Romanoff continues. “There’s evidence of a fight in the living room.”

Brock looks from her to the unopened door of the master bedroom.

Romanoff nods, and kicks open the door.

Brock has his weapon up, scanning the room as she searches it.

“Clear,” Romanoff yells from the bathroom. 

Brock lowers his weapon and starts pursuing the room. It’s a quaint bedroom, with only a bed, a side table, and a desk in the room. It’s the desk he walks towards. There is a pile of papers on it. Some of the pages are black, others have drawings or poems on them. 

“The target was here,” Romanoff says, coming back into the room. “We just missed her.”

“Not by her choice,” Brock says, holding up one of the loose pages from the desk.

On the paper were the words, ‘THEY ARE COMING,’ and a set of coordinates.

“That’s in Chechnya,” Romanoff tells him.

* * *

She is on a matt, sweaty and full of hope. All eyes are on her as she shines, blinding her with visions of the future. Her hair is down in loose curls, and the leather of her tactical suit moves with her like a second skin. One of her masters dip his chin for her to begin. She smiles brightly, stepping in sync to the ebb and flow of her opponent. It’s a beautiful dance she knows by heart.


	11. Lies We Tell

“Aren’t you handsome,” Darcy slurs at the male nurse changing her IV.

“Miss Lewis,” the nurse greets. “I’m glad to see you awake and smiling.”

He’s wearing white scrubs, with a white doctor’s coat over it. He’s cute, in that ‘probably volunteers at animal shelters, and believes in talking about his feelings’ kinda way. A month ago, Darcy would have flirted. She would have continued on with a not in the least bit subtle innuendo that more than like would have left him blushing. 

“Call me Daria,” Darcy says, before catching herself and adding, “or Darcy,” with a nonchalant shrug of the shoulders. 

He laughs, “Alright, Darcy. I’m going to let the doctor know you are awake.”

He gives her a smile as he leaves her alone in the room. It’s a boring room. The walls are white. The floor is white. The ceiling is white. There is a window to her left with the morning sun glaring at her, and a wooden door to her right. 

Darcy fiddles with the basic white bedding. She pulls at the stitching. She fluffs her one pillow, and attempts to shift to a comfier position.

“Darcy,” she says out loud with a huff of utter defeat. “My name is Darcy Lewis. My name is Darcy Lewis. My Name is Darcy Lewis.

There is a noise at the door, and she looks over in time to see the door open revealing her mother, and what she assumes to be, her doctor.

He, too, smiles at her, “I’m going to do a quick check of your vitals and makes sure everything is good. Then, you can be discharged.”

“Finally,” her mother mutters with a roll of her eyes.  
The doctor walks over to Darcy as he pulls the stethoscope from where it was resting on his shoulder, and starts listening to her heart. “You were knocked unconscious. We did a CT scan. We even had to call in a specialist. You had an unusually high level of brain function for someone who was basically in a coma.”

“Weird,” Darcy says slowly, watching both the doctor and her mother.

The doctor pulls out a fancy light, “Open wide.”

“She’s fine,” her mother says as she checks her nails.

“I would like medical proof,” the doctor says with a quick glance at her mother, as he checks Darcy’s ears.

“I would like to leave,” Darcy says.

The doctor turns to her.

“Do you know the date?” he asks.

Darcy stares at him. “You said I was basically in a coma.”

“Sweetie, it’s Wednesday. You missed a whole day of work, and unless you feel like taking an elevator to your desk right now, you are going to miss another day,” her mother says.

“Am I going to get fired? Can they legally do that? I mean it was their guy at their required physical training thing…” Darcy says. 

“Miss Lewis,” the doctor says loudly. 

He makes a move to grab her, but Darcy flinches out of his reach.

“Can I leave, yet?” she asks.

The doctor looks down at the clipboard in his hand, and then up at her mother.

“She’s not in charge here. I’m asking you, as my doctor, is there any reason I have to stay?” Darcy asks as she crawls out of the hospital bed.

The doctor clears his throat, “I would recommend--”

“Cool,” Darcy interrupts. “But can I go?”

Out of the corner of her eye, she notices her mother watching her.

The doctor scribbles something down and shoves the folder at her, “Sign this.”

It’s a discharge form, and Darcy signs it happily. She shoves the form back at the doctor and shoulders past him to leave. Her mother moves out of the way, letting Darcy walk a smidgen ahead of her as they leave.

She doesn’t speak to Darcy until they are alone in the elevator. They are 65 floors up, and her mother has a finger on the ‘close door’ button.

“How are you feeling?” her mother asks. 

She doesn’t look at Darcy, choosing to look

“Like I just stumbled off a bad roller coaster. Did I ever do ballet, like when I was a little girl?” Darcy asks.

Her mother looks at her for a moment.

“No,” her mother lies.

“I had a dream I did. Danced around in a red tutu, on a red stage. It was all very weird and very red.” Darcy says. “Can we get mexican food?”

* * *

“Debriefing is in one hour,” Agent Sitwell orders as the Strike Team Alpha disembarks off the Quinjet.

“Sir,” Agent Romanoff greets as she steps out of the jet, “I disagree with Rumlow’s decision on returning to base, instead of checking out the coordinates.”

Jack shoots Brock a look of incredulous, before disapearing into the men’s locker room. 

“You would have rather gone to an unknown location deep in Russian territory without permission, adequate resources, or proper numbers,” Sitwell says, “Noted, Agent.”

“Our target left us a lead on her killer. We are consciously letting the trail get cold. It is a mistake to hesitate on this,” Romanoff says.

Brock and Sitwell watch her walk off towards the woman’s locker room.

“Are you worried about that?” Sitwell asks him.

“What she said? No. Whatever is at the coordinates are either ready for us, or they aren’t. But we’ll be ready for them.”

Sitwell hums in agreement.

“But her?” Brock continues. “You should have seen her. I held up the sheet with the coordinates, and I swear she flinched.” Brock turns to face Sitwell, “She knows more than she’s sharing.”  
Sitwell lowers his voice, “What do you plan to do about it?” 

“Stack the team in my favor. Plan multiple exit strategies without her. Keep the operation simple.”

Sitwell nods and dismisses him.

By the time he gets to the locker room, most of his team has showered and left already. Jack is lounging on the metal bench between the lockers, waiting for him.

“I knew there was something sketchy about this target,” Jack begins. 

Brock rolls his eyes as he peels off his tactical suit, “Don’t start.”

Jack swings up to a sitting position, “No really, hear me out. The target was good--”

“That’s why we got the assignment. Because skill’s required to eliminate a skillful target,” Brock points out.

“Right,” Jack says, “But this wasn’t just our average elite trained combatant. The target evaded us for almost have a year.”

“Get to your point,” Brock orders as he pulls on his SHIELD issued tshirt.

“I think we were chasing a Black Widow. I think the target was a Black Widow, and that Romanoff knows it.”

Brock stares at him. Jack stares back.

The door on the other side of the locker room opens, drawing both their attentions. 

A rookie strolls in, and fumbles as he opens up his locker. He digs around in it, oblivious to the figurative bomb dropped in the room.

“Oh, hey, Rumlow. Rollins,” the rookie greets.

Both men nod to him.

The rookie pulls out a jacket and head back to the door.

“Rumlow,” he calls over his shoulder, “heard your girl wound up in medical after her first day in training. Sucks, man.”

The door shuts.

“What the fuck?” Brock asks.

Jack gives him a look, “The multiple Black Widows in play, or the thing about your girl?”

“Who was her instructor?” Brock asks evenly.

“Don’t,” Jack warns.

“Carl? Kevin? Jackson?” Brock guesses.

Jack stands up slowly and rolls his shoulders, “Her instructor was Kevin.” He pops the joints in his neck and shakes out his arms. “Sitwell mentioned he was in the gym right now.”

Brock slams the door to his locker shut, and turns towards the door.

Jack slams him against the lockers, with an arm against his throat and a leg blocking Brocks.

“The fuck?” Brock asks, slightly choking on the pressure of Jack’s arm.

“People are watching,” Jack says lowly with a rough shove to make his point. “They’re watching you, and they’re watching her.”

Brock pushes him away, and Jack steps back without a fight.

“You think it’s a setup?” Brock asks.

“I think it's an opportunity to see where your loyalty is. With her? You going to rush off, beat the shit out of a fellow agent and run off into the sunset with her? Or are you going to do your job? Attend the debriefing, be calm and rational. Then, go home to your girl after you’ve done what’s important here?”

“Kevin? Kevin Windsor? The level 4 blonde boy-scout?” Brock scoffs, as his phone starts ringing.

He answers. He listens. He hangs up.

Jack takes another step backwards, still staring at Brock. “Are you compromised?”


	12. People We Trust

Reflex

  Noun,

  1. an action that is performed as a response to a stimulus and without conscious thought.
  2. a thing that is determined by and reproduces the essential features or qualities of something else.



  Adjective

  1. (of an action) performed without conscious thought as an automatic response to a stimulus.
  2. (of an angle) exceeding 180°.



* * *

Darcy is sitting in her usual breakfast spot at the kitchen island, despite it being well past lunchtime. She has a plate of warm toast and peanut butter spread on her right, and her laptop open to an going google search on her left.

“A neuronal pathway, or neural network, is traversed over and over again, an enduring pattern engraved, and neural messages are more likely to flow along such familiar paths of least resistance…” Darcy skims the next few paragraphs.

She’s too engrossed in the article to hear her mother’s heels making noise on the stairs.

Darcy hits the back button on the browser, taking her back to the Google search page. She’s five links into her search and still hasn’t found for what she is looking.

The next link on the list is an MIT article written a few months ago, “A maverick neuroscientist believes he has deciphered the code by which the brain forms long-term memories. ...a patient with severe memory loss can get help from an electronic implant.”

She’s getting closer. She goes back to the Google search results page and edits the search to include ‘memory studies and articles.'

Her mother walks in. Darcy doesn’t look up from her computer screen. Things had been tense since they got home from the hospital to the point that both women unspokenly agreed to leave the other alone for a bit.

This left Darcy with a perfect opportunity to find some answers using the handy-dandy Google. Search after search, and she has only uncovered slivers of answers.

The next article was from the Smithsonian, “A recent study conducted in Russia has proven voltage fluctuations can be used to reroute the neural network, affecting memory, attention, perception, cognition, awareness, thought, language, and consciousness…”

Voltage, electricity, Russia--Darcy jumps to the bottom of the article looking for the name of researcher or scientist who published the original article.

She finds it, “Dr. Alexi Bruskin, Chechnya, Russia.”

“Are you listening to me?” her mother asks.

“Yes, madame,” Darcy answers.

Reflex. Muscle memory. Recognition.

She sees her mother, madame, woman go for her gun. Darcy kicks a chair at her and grabs a few knives from the holder next to the fruit. She ducks around the corner and out the kitchen door. She darts down the hallway to put distance between her and the woman.

Two shots go off, but neither hits Darcy.

Darcy waits and listens.

She can’t let the woman leave. The woman has the answers Darcy need. Darcy can’t allow the woman live. She knows things, and now she knows that Darcy knows… something.

Ballet and kevlar, in a red room.

Another shot fires and Darcy wrack her brain for locations in the house for weapons and ammo. Everywhere, her mind comes up with, and nowhere.

Darcy inches a little closer to the next corner.

Three more shots fired.

Darcy ducks and slides her back against the wall. She toes of her shoes, and in socked feet, makes her way back to the kitchen. She crouches down by the doorway and pulls her hair out of its ponytail. She shoots the hair tie at the mirror on the wall. It shatters loudly.

She slips through the kitchen and into the living room. Darcy throws the knife the moment she sees her mother.

The knife catches the woman, her mother, in the stomach. It doesn’t stop the woman, the madame, from pulling the trigger. The bullet hits Darcy in the shoulder as Darcy tries to hide behind the tv unit.

The chamber clicks. Darcy pokes her head out. The woman is standing there with an empty gun in one hand and the other holding the knife still in her stomach. Both women are at a standstill.

The phone rings.

And it rings, and it rings.

Neither woman moves for it.

“You remember,” her mother accuses. “You shouldn’t.”

“Brain trauma,” Darcy supplies her theory.

“They’ll come for you,” her mother warns.

“They?” Darcy questions, “Not you?”

“If you leave here alive, with memory intact, then I’ve failed. Leviathan doesn’t forgive failure. You know that,” her mother says.

“So that’s what this is? You or me,” Darcy scoffs.

“Something like that,” her mother says.

Windows break in the direction of the kitchen. Darcy doesn’t look. She doesn’t take her eyes off the woman.

Instead, she charges the woman. She runs, jumping up and off the couch, at the woman. Darcy knocks the gun away and wraps her hands around the woman’s throat. She slams the woman against the wall.

“What do you know?” Darcy snarls in the woman’s face.

Heavy boots pound on the ground. Guns click.

“You lose, Daria Drakovna Liudvikas.”


End file.
